Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
By sunrise, the rain had stopped, leaving the skyline of Chicago bathed in a cold, pale yellow light.
Inside the high-rise penthouse of the Drake Hotel, the Donati family council was gathering. Nine men sat around a long mahogany conference table, smoking thick cigars, sipping espresso, and celebrating what they assumed was the death of Vittorio Bellacasa.
At the head of the table sat Sal Donati—sixty years old, bloated, wearing a gold watch and a velvet track jacket. Beside him sat Marco Rossi, Vittorio’s former underboss, looking pale and nervous despite the celebratory champagne on the table.
"It’s done," Sal declared, slamming his hand down on the table. "The restaurant burned. The old man and his golden boy are ash. The Bellacasa line ends today."
"Are you sure?" Marco asked, his fingers twitching against his glass. "The team on the roof... none of them have checked in."
"They're cleaning up," Sal dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Don't be a coward, Marco. You gave us the schedule, we delivered the hit. By noon, your men in New York will take control of the docks, and my boys will take the Chicago territory. We share the pie fifty-fifty, just like we agreed."
The heavy double doors of the boardroom suddenly swung inward.
There was no gunfight. No dramatic explosion.
Just a tall, dark-haired man stepping into the room, wearing a midnight-blue suit, holding a silver tray with a single porcelain coffee cup sitting upon it.
The entire room went dead silent.
Sal Donati’s cigar slipped from his fingers, falling onto his velvet jacket. "Damian..."
Marco Rossi fell out of his chair, scrambling backward against the wall, his face white as a sheet. "No... no, it’s impossible! They said you were inside!"
Damian walked slowly toward the head of the table, his footsteps echoing in the absolute silence. He set the silver tray down directly in front of Sal Donati.
"My father found the lobster bisque at Saint Lucien distasteful," Damian said smoothly, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "So we brought our own coffee."
From the shadows of the hallway outside, Vittorio Bellacasa walked in, leaning lightly on his ebony cane. Behind him stood Nora Vale, dressed in a sharp black suit, her hair tied back, her amber eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking over a field of mice.
Sal Donati reached frantically for the drawer of his desk where his revolver was kept, but before his fingers could touch the handle, a silver bullet smashed through the polished wood, shattering his wrist.
Sal screamed, clutching his bloody arm.
Nora lowered her Beretta, the wisps of smoke curling from the barrel. She didn't say a word.
Vittorio walked to the chair at the head of the table, pulled it out, and sat down. He looked around at the nine men who had ruled the Chicago underworld—men who were now trembling in their chairs, staring at the ghost of the man they thought they had murdered.
"Marco," Vittorio said softly, looking over at his former underboss cowering on the floor. "You always had poor taste in partners."
"Vittorio... please!" Marco begged, tears streaming down his aged face. "They threatened my family! They forced me!"
"You sold Enna forty years ago for ten million lire," Vittorio said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, carrying only the absolute weight of a final judgment. "You sold me yesterday for two villas in France. You never changed, Marco. You were born a rat, and you will die like one."
Vittorio looked up at Nora.
"Daughter of Valenti," Vittorio said softly. "The debt of Enna begins here."
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Nora stepped forward. She didn't hesitate. She didn't deliver a villain's speech.
She raised her weapon, her amber eyes burning with a cold, ancient fire, and pulled the trigger.
